


fireflies keep shining

by finkpishnets



Category: DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim's life would be so much easier if he just had to deal with one emotional mess at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fireflies keep shining

**Author's Note:**

> Well this certainly became something I didn't mean it to. For the trope_bingo prompt "Band AU."

Bart and Jaime are making out enthusiastically by the side of the stage, and Tim mentally flips them both off and vows to never invite them to the same show again. This _always_ happens, partly because Tim is incapable of separating out the different parts of his life and mostly because Bart is weirdly focused when it comes to Jaime, which was funny at first and now just means they maul each other in public a lot. 

Jaime’s in Tim’s Advanced Physics class and competes in skateboarding competitions and is generally the coolest person Tim’s friends with that he didn’t inherit from Dick. Bart, on the other hand, is Wally’s hyperactive little cousin who just showed up in town one day and never left, and Tim has no idea how he became one of his favorite people but he’s pretty sure it involved a lot of sugar and so much passive-aggressive touching that he forgot to build up a tolerance. Either way, Jaime and Bart make no sense, except for how they really, absolutely do. 

Mostly Tim’s just jealous, but he’s known that for ages so he thinks it’s probably okay.

Cassie introduces their next song, pushing her hair behind her ears and stamping down on the hand of a guy in the front row when he tries to touch her. Tim thinks he hears bone crunch and bites back a grin. M’gann starts them off on keys and Tim listens closely for his cue, deliberately not looking behind him at Conner who’s taking out about a year’s worth of aggression on his kit tonight, and focusing instead on Gar as he flings himself and his guitar across the stage as though gravity is a thing that only exists for other people.

From the corner of his eye he can see Dick leaning casually against the bar, head thrown back as he laughs at something Wally’s said, crowding into Artemis’ space with a reply. Tim’s fingers almost stutter but he’s better than that, catches himself in time and focuses on the rise and fall of Cassie’s voice instead.

The crowd are responsive if rowdy, and sure the place is barely better than a dive, but they’re still getting paid enough that they’ll even have some left over after gas. It’s not like Tim needs the money anyway, not with the credit card Bruce gave him for his thirteenth birthday battered in his wallet and a hundred tabs open across a hundred high end locations for him to abuse at his leisure. Not that he does. Not that any of them do, but it’s part of being a pseudo-Wayne and the reputation is just as important as the stock prices.

The Wayne reputation is also the reason he tries not to stare at Dick in public.

Bart waves enthusiastically up at him between songs, Jaime chatting with some guy in a pro skater shirt and still managing to keep one hand down practically down Bart’s pants, and Tim rolls his eyes and ignores the finger Bart shoots back. Sometimes he wishes he had different friends. Sometimes he wishes the friends he does have were serious all the times they suggested Tim’s bed was big enough for three.

Eventually Conner throws his sticks on top of his snare drum and stalks off, and Cassie rolls her eyes without turning around and shouts their goodnights as the next band shuffle their own equipment towards the stage. Tim makes sure his bass is safe and secure before following the others, winding his way through people legally able to drink and hopes someone took Bart’s fake ID away from him once he was through the door. Not that anyone would ever mistake Bart for twenty-one but his charm had a disturbing way of winning out in the end. 

Technically they’re all supposed to vacate the premises now they’ve finished playing, the sort of agreement bar managers come to when they want cheap entertainment and few repercussions, and normally Tim would be grabbing a bottle of water and a cab in short order, but there’s a crowd of people around Dick now, all drinking in his every word, and Tim can’t help but watch from the other end of the bar.

“Great show,” Jaime says, pressing the palm of his hand high on Tim’s back and passing him something that smells too sharp to be soda.

“Like you were paying attention,” Tim scoffs and doesn’t bother asking what’s in the glass before downing half of it. Vodka, he thinks, though the Coke is doing a good job covering it up.

“Hey,” Jaime says, grinning, “my _ears_ weren’t occupied.”

Further along, Wally’s passing out a handful of beers and Tim watches as Bart slips in and grabs one, disappearing before Wally even begins to question miscounting. “He hasn’t paid for a drink all night,” Jaime says fondly, and Tim laughs in spite of himself.

“S’up Timothy?” Bart says, necking his stolen beer and gravitating into Jaime’s personal space on auto-pilot.

“You know, I’m pretty sure you two could have made out just as well in your own homes,” he says, and jumps a little when Jaime presses his fingers harder against his shoulder blades.

“Don’t be a dick,” Jaime says. “We came because you’re our friend.”

“And also because it’s a Thursday night so everyone’s home,” Bart adds, and it’s Tim’s turn to flip him off.

“You could just go over there,” Jaime says, nodding in the direction of the others. M’gann and Cassie are talking to Artemis as Gar and Wally undoubtedly trade bad puns, and Conner seems in better spirits now he’s pressed into a corner and not in the limelight. Babs has arrived from somewhere - most likely the library given the bag hanging heavily over her shoulder - and accepts the drink Dick passes her with a grateful smile, waving at Zatanna who’s captivating her own web of admirers by the out of use jukebox.

They’re Tim’s _friends_ , or friends-by-proxy at the very least, and it should be the easiest thing in the world to slip in and join the fray; years of Wayne upbringing have made him an expert at seamlessly fitting in, and he knows he’d have fun just talking and drinking and refusing to dance but tonight it just seems exhausting.

“You guys go ahead,” he says, and lets himself leans back a little into Jaime’s hand. “I’m going to head home.”

Bart makes a sound as if he’s going to argue, but Jaime glances his way and he stops, folding his arms around Tim’s neck instead and ending up sandwiching him between the two of them. Tim’s life would be so much easier if he just had to deal with one emotional mess at a time, but at least this is the easier of the two, so he breathes into Bart’s hair and clings to Jaime’s arm and waits for them to pull away first.

“See you tomorrow,” Jaime says as Bart tangles their fingers together and pulls him towards the dance floor with a salute.

Tim misses them the moment they’re out of sight.

Outside the Gotham air clings to him like a second skin, heavy and humid and _home_. There’s a taxi rank half a block down, and he grips his guitar case to him and walks slowly, wondering if he can time his return between Alfred turning in and Bruce getting home. He’s almost to the curb when a hand on his arm pulls him up short, and it’s only the familiar smell of Dick’s overpriced cologne that stops Tim swinging fists.

“Sharing would be cheaper,” Dick says before Tim’s even turned to face him, and Tim wants to snap something witty back but he just nods and doesn’t question why Dick’s left early too, giving an address a street away from the real one to the next free driver and relaxing a little when the guy’s eyes skim over them in disinterest instead of recognition.

In the cab the radio’s turned down low on a station playing classic rock and the partition feels like real privacy instead of the illusion of it. Dick’s fingers tap out a rhythm on the leather between them, and Tim lets his own slide a little closer in invitation, wondering if this is one of the nights Dick will take him up on it or if he’ll be the better man and ignore it in favor of ‘brotherly’ conversation about his grades. Ninety percent of the time it’s the latter. The other ten percent is the anticipation that drives him.

Tonight Dick’s fingers falter and Tim holds his breath as they find his own, just a gentle press that’s simultaneously completely innocent and a promise of the opposite.

The rest of the journey is torture and Tim soaks it in and sends a prayer to every deity he can remember that the Manor will be silent when they arrive as Dick leans forward to change their location, and the driver blinks his surprise and keeps his mouth shut when Dick tips him well beyond the point of generously.

There’s a note from Bruce on the hallway console saying not to expect him before morning and the lack of light spilling from the kitchen means Alfred’s given up waiting on any of them. Dick lets out a deep breath and Tim knows it means he’s out of excuses; Dick likes to list the reasons why this shouldn’t happen - age, relationship, opinion - and Tim likes to shrug him off and remind him they’re both legal, unrelated by blood, and discreet when they want to be. Neither of them wants to disappoint Alfred or Bruce, though.

They take the stairs to Tim’s room without talking about it, and Tim waits until the door clicks shut behind him before reaching out to touch, sliding his fingers down the seams of Dick’s shirt and watching Dick’s eyes darken into something wonderful. There’s a thousand reasons this shouldn’t be happening, however much Tim denies it, but maybe that’s why it _is_ ; their lives are dictated by rules and PR representatives, and this is the worst nightmare of both so of course it’s everything Tim wants.

Everything Dick wants, when he lets himself admit it.

Tim thinks, if he’s ever caught out, he’ll just say it was between sleeping with his ‘brother’ and sleeping with his two best friends, and he figured the forbidden love angle was easier to sell than the threesome one.

Dick’s lips graze the side of his throat and Tim bites down a whimper, and then another when Dick lifts his hands to his mouth, tonguing across the long built up calluses on the pads of Tim’s fingers.

“You sounded good tonight,” he says, and Tim’s eyes flutter closed. 

“You almost distracted me.”

Dick laughs, nipping at Tim’s thumb. “No, you’re a consummate professional.”

Behind his eyelids Tim can see the night play out, can see himself climbing on top of Dick on cotton sheets and kissing, kissing, kissing until Dick growls low in his throat and flips them over. Can see fingers and tongues and whispers against lust-stained skin, and the way Dick’s jaw twitches when he’s near the edge.

When he opens his eyes, Dick’s watching him like he sees it all too.

They’ve always been good at locating the same page.

In his pocket, Tim’s phone buzzes - a text from Jaime or Bart or _Jaime and Bart_ \- and Tim smiles when Dick’s eyes dart down, a tell he wouldn’t even have known to look for. He doesn’t say _“Jealousy suits you,”_ because it’s cruel and true and unbelievable, and because Tim wants to keep it to cling to the next time he’s watching Dick from the stage and letting his own jealousy simmer.

“What?” Dick says when Tim doesn’t stop smiling.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head and pressing closer, “you’re just distracting me again.”

“Well,” Dick says, and it’s easier when he’s like this, sure and playful and in charge instead of clinging to an imagined crises of morality, “that sounds like a challenge.”

It is, or it could be, and in Tim’s head the possibilities play out to a bassline.


End file.
